


耀

by thestrangehistorian



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical Hetalia, Originally Posted on Tumblr, this is mainly just a fun drabble i had so here it is for your enjoyment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 10:25:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10739793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestrangehistorian/pseuds/thestrangehistorian
Summary: Just a small story about where and how China may have received his human name. I hope you enjoy!





	耀

Wang Jian sold vegetables for a living.

He was not a very old man, not yet, but he had two grown-ups sons who had gone off to fight in the war. He and his wife were kind and friendly people, well-liked by all their neighbors. They always paid their debts and shared whatever extra food they had with those who were struggling. They were not rich, and they worried frequently about the state of their country, but in the end he was confident that he would get by and be happy.

One breezy afternoon, a thief stole from his cart.

The smith’s apprentice luckily witnessed the crime and chased the culprit down. Wang Jian was not surprised to see the grimy, sharp-eyed boy with matted hair. He looked exactly like the type of urchin who would try and steal food. The apprentice asked if they should call the authorities; but Wang Jian told him that it wouldn’t be necessary, thank you.

When the apprentice returned to work, they were alone – the aging vegetable seller and the thief.

The boy had golden eyes, Wang Jian noted. Such a lovely color. He had never seen true gold before, but he thought maybe this was it.

“If you were hungry,” he told the boy, “all you had to do was ask.”

He offered the boy a free pick.

“It’s not much,” he said apologetically. “But I’m afraid that’s all I can do for now. Now, my wife is a wonderful cook. Ah, I have an idea. Why don’t you come and stay for dinner?”

The boy, who had not said a single word this whole time, nodded.

So Wang Jian continued working, while the boy sat on a stool nearby and watched. He had very sharp eyes indeed; he scarcely looked away once. Wang Jian couldn’t imagine what was so interesting about an old man selling vegetables. But maybe he was just hungry and wanted to get home.

With that in mind, Wang Jian tried to work a little harder and finished his last order early. He instructed the boy to help him clean up the cart for the day, and to his surprise, the boy did so without complaint. While they carried the supplies home, the old man told the boy about his wife and how excited she would be to have guests.

“You’ll like her,” he assured the boy. “But be careful. Once she sees the state you’re in, she’ll hardly let you out of her sight.”

At home, Wang Jian and his wife scavenged up a few of their son’s old clothes for the boy. They helped him wash his face and hair and put a meal on the table. He ate like he hadn’t seen a proper meal in years – and it was possible he hadn’t.

In the morning, the wife caught him trying to sneak away. She smacked him upside the head and ordered him to come and eat a proper breakfast, grumbling all the while.

At last, to the boy’s apparent horror, she burst out, “You didn’t even think to take anything to sell! I know we don’t have very much of value but it’s like you weren’t even planning ahead! How could you be so reckless? What kind of thief are you, anyway?”

Wang Jian saw this exchange and laughed for what felt like hours.

That day, the boy helped Wang Jian set up his cart again. He sat and watched while the old man sold his wares. Then, at the end of the day, they sat at the table and ate dinner and Wang Jian laughed as his wife complimented the boy’s exemplary table manners.

And this went on, and on, and on for a few weeks.

The boy never told them his name. In fact, he never spoke a word. They suspected that he was mute, for some reason or another. They didn’t question it. Wang Jian took to calling him, “Yao,” which was the name of his brother who had died long ago. It was a good, strong name, he assured the boy - a name you could wear with pride. And if anyone else in town thought it was strange that the Wang family had just accepted this boy out of nowhere, well, then they had the courtesy not to say anything to the boy directly. It was nice, actually, to have some company.

Then, Qin army swept into the state of Chu, and it was over.

There was no great battle, not in Wang Jian’s world. The fighting took place in a field in the distance, away from the town. Many of the local boys breathed their last out on those grasses, while Wang Jian and his wife fretted and worried about the fates of their true sons. Yao sat at the table, silent and wide-eyed.

When the bloodshed ceased, the soldiers called all the people in the village out, into the streets near where Wang Jian had been selling vegetables for most of his life. Huddled together, they noted the flags and standards of foreign dukes and princes, who had sworn allegiance to the conquerors. Poor Yao followed them loyally and did not run, but he cowered under Wang Jian’s arm, as if the thin old man’s body could shield him from the soldiers.

Suddenly, Wang Jian wished that he’d tried to understand the boy’s past a little better.

One moment, Yao was there and the next, a soldier on horseback cut through the crowd, knocking people aside – including Jian’s wife – in order to snatch the boy up.

“Wait!” Wang Jian cried. “Please, don’t do this!”

He couldn’t even say what he was protesting. He hardly knew this child at all.

“Please, that boy is my –”

The soldier on horseback slammed the butt of his sword into Wang Jian’s face. Pain exploded across his cheek, bones CRACKED, and he went down, clutching the side of his face. Several people screamed, but no one moved to challenge him again. Even as they took him away, the boy made no sound at all.

Wang Jian laid on the road, bruised and bleeding and dizzy with hurt.

He never saw the child again.

* * *

 

King Zhen always believed that he would someday rule the world.

And for him, the only world that mattered was this country – not the various states with their dukes and pampered princes – but one country, united in its strength. United under _his_ strength. That was the purpose of this war. That was why he had come here, to find the boy.

The boy had once come into King Zhen’s court. Back then, not even the king was allowed to lay eyes on him. The astrologers and the priests said that the child was special, the dragon given human form. He had seen the reign of the Shang emperors and the sage-kings of Xia. He had survived a great terrible flood in his impossible youth. King Zhen was intrigued. He was something of an expert in the mystic arts of the world, but even he had some difficulty understanding the boy’s nature. The only thing that truly mattered was that the boy was the key to power in this land. That was all it came down to, in the end: All things in this world, or in the next.

Power.

So that was why the King was unimpressed, when he first laid eyes on the child. He was too skinny, so soft. He had a face like a girl’s. He was poorly dressed, unadorned with any of the things that would have been fitting for a demigod.

“What is he called?” King Zhen asked the guards.

Promptly, one responded, “Wang Yao, your majesty.”

This was a trick question. His guards were foolish men, inexperienced in life’s greater mysteries. But the King had a better idea; this time, he addressed the boy directly.

“Why did you run? And who exactly is ‘Wang Yao’ supposed to be?”

“Me,” said the boy. “It’s my name.”

“You have no true name. You take the name of whatever family is the most powerful in this land. Logically, you should be calling yourself Qin, since I am now the most powerful person around.”

The boy pressed his lips together and looked down. It was strange, thought King Zhen. Most people didn’t dare look him in the face like that to begin with. But this boy had no fear. Perhaps that was the reason for his strangeness – or perhaps it was a side-effect.

“Wang Jian is the man who fed me,” said the boy. "He gave me this name."

“Sentimental,” said the king, dispassionately. “What an immature brat.”

The boy said nothing. King Zhen felt a prickle of unease – as if the boy was somehow defying him. Defying him through silence.

“Why did you run?” he rumbled.

The boy responded with another question. “What will happen to the people in that village?”

King Zhen said shortly, “They’ll be made to serve me and my new empire.”

“What if they don’t want to?”

“If they rebel, they’ll be killed. That’s the way it always is. Are you stupid?”

The boy was not stupid, and they both knew it.

“You will stay with me as well.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Am I so repulsive to you? Do you think you have a choice?”

“You can’t kill me,” said the boy quietly. “I won’t ever die.”

“Someday, you will show me how you managed that.”

Quieter still, the boy replied, “I didn’t ask to be born.”

What a pathetic thing to say, the king thought.

“No one asks to be born,” he said. “You’ll just have to suffer life like the rest of us.”

“Without dying?”

“No one wants to die,” said the king. “You should be grateful.”

In truth, King Zhen was a bit jealous of the boy. Even in an age where magic and miracles were commonplace, the existence of this boy was impossible. Yet, at the same time, nothing happened for no reason. There were divine forces at work, powers in this world that the king did not understand. But he wanted to. The hunger for knowledge ate at his heart, a little bit more each day. Even now, his palms and his face itched as he stared at the boy, seeking answers.

“You didn’t answer my first question.”

Even though he was small, the boy was already older than the king would ever be. Somehow, it was all there in the molten fire of his eyes. Wisdom and pain, determination and power.

“Why did you run?”

The boy blinked at him and then replied simply, “I don’t like fighting. It hurts me.”

“When I’m through,” said King Zhen, who would later call himself Qin Shi Huang, “you will be stronger than any other nation, and no one will ever be able to hurt you again.”

The boy considered this. He considered the war and the violence that he had been trying to escape for so many decades. He thought about the long nights where he had gone hungry and cold. He thought about the little old man and his funny wife, the simple people who opened their homes to him with no questions asked. What a strange place this world was. And with all this in mind, the boy – who would live for another four thousand years and call himself the Middle Kingdom and the Celestial Empire, but who would forever in his heart be Wang Yao, to honor the man who had shown him the first, unprompted and genuine kindness in his life – China nodded his head and accepted the word of his new emperor.

When Emperor Qin beckoned him to follow, China went without complaint.


End file.
